


A Lovely Way To Spend An Evening (Yes, We'll Go Dancing)

by nerddowell



Series: Stories From The Dance Hall [6]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: I reject your reality and substitute my own, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War, Romance, Slow Dancing, reminiscences, soft lighting slow dancing and all that gay shit, this is like a soothing balm for my soul after watching IW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14563014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: This is a lovely way to spend an eveningCan't think of anything I'd rather doA modern-era Bucky/Steve snapshot featuring super soldiers dancing super slow to music from a past life.Inspired byAfter the Bombsby the Decemberists but also byA Lovely Way To Spend An Eveningby Frank Sinatra.





	A Lovely Way To Spend An Evening (Yes, We'll Go Dancing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesbuchanan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbuchanan/gifts).



> I watched _Infinity War_ and it rekindled my passionate love for these two idiots times a thousand. Expect this long-neglected series to be restarted. (Hopefully.)
> 
> Dedicated to [Katie](http://lesbuchanan.tumblr.com) because do I even need a reason?

The light filtering through the windows of Steve’s apartment is as soft and golden as his hair, sun setting over the Brooklyn bridge, as the soft static of the record player starting up fills the space of the living room. Steve has moved the furniture – a couch that, despite its worn appearance, has hardly ever been sat on, and a couple of armchairs in the same sort of state – out of the way, and there’s a wide empty circle of wooden flooring left in their wake. He’s dressed in a grey tshirt and loose pyjama pants that hang entirely different on his hips to the way they would have in 1943; his shoulders are as broad as they had been skinny then, he stands up taller, straighter, no scoliosis-curve to his spine. But his eyes are soft, as gentle as the hand he’s reaching out to Bucky, and that hasn’t changed at all.

It’s been years since he’s heard Sinatra’s voice in the muted tones of a record, the scratch of the needle over the vinyl, and he’s half afraid that he’s forgotten what to do. He remembers – or rather, Steve has told him – all about the boy he’d been back in the ’40s, before the war and Zola and Hydra and everything that happened over the past seventy years. He knows about the pomaded hair and the suave smiles and the girls hanging off each arm, the steps that came as naturally as breathing in the dance halls, the swinging of his fists behind the garbage cans afterwards when others were aiming at Steve. But they’re no longer memories, just half-formed images in his head, more like illustrations to a story he’s read years ago than snapshots of a life that belonged to him. He hesitates.

‘C’mon,’ Steve says, quiet, and his hand closes around Bucky’s. He doesn’t flinch at the cold metal, never has. Instead, he rubs his thumb over the steel knuckles, warm and callused, and Bucky still can’t quite believe that this arm, this weapon Hydra inflicted on him, is sensitive enough to feel that. Steve squeezes, pulls him closer slowly, and smiles.

‘C’mon, Barnes, you’re the one who knows what he’s doin’ here.’ He puts Bucky’s other hand on his waist and smiles encouragingly. Bucky flexes his fingers warily, takes a deep breath, and then a hesitant first step.

Steve follows, and it’s achingly familiar and strangely new all at once. Ever since the factory, Bucky has been the one following him, a shadow, and he’s not used to taking the lead. But Steve has told him the way it was in Brooklyn, Steve a tiny, golden satellite around Bucky’s steady steel. He’s not sure he believes him, but he swallows the butterflies in his stomach and steps out again, letting the dreamlike beat of the music guide him.

Steve is singing along to the record under his breath as they revolve slowly, his eyes on Bucky’s face. He knows all the words, murmuring them along with Frank, and Bucky watches the minute movements of his lips as though Steve’s words hold the secret to the universe. Maybe they do.

A memory wriggles through the cracks, unfolds in his mind’s eye: Steve, hand on Bucky’s waist, glowering at his feet as he stumbled through the steps to a steady waltz as Bucky hummed a tune and patiently followed. The window open, the curtains blowing gently in the breeze coming off the bay as the sunset filtered gold and red light into the room, traffic outside muted. The feeling of a warm hand in his, the scuffing of their shoes over uneven floorboards. Steve’s breathing.

Bucky looks up at him and swallows hard. He lets go of Steve briefly to push his hair back off his face, tucking the loose curls escaping from his bun behind his ears, and pulls Steve closer still, until he can rest his chin on Steve’s shoulder and feel the warmth of his broad chest through his hoodie.

They rock together, Steve turning them around in lazy circles and still singing, for hours, until the only light in the room is from the stars far above and the record is no longer playing, just making soft shuffling sounds on the turntable, and Bucky listens, loves, and just _breathes_.

**Author's Note:**

> I made this whole series a playlist on 8tracks and it can be found [here](https://8tracks.com/bilskirnir/songs-from-the-dance-hall).


End file.
